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[noteasybeingred]

on seeing a sex surrogate - mark o'brian

In 1983, I wrote an article about sex and disabled people. In interviewing sexually active men and women, I felt removed, as though I were an anthropologist interviewing headhunters while endeavoring to maintain the value-neutral stance of a social scientist. Being disabled myself, but also being a virgin, I envied these people ferociously. It took me years to discover that what separated me from them was fear — fear of others, fear of making decisions, fear of my own sexuality, and a surpassing dread of my parents. Even though I no longer lived with them, I continued to live with a sense of their unrelenting presence, and their disapproval of sexuality in general, mine in particular. In my imagination, they seemed to have an uncanny ability to know what I was thinking, and were eager to punish me for any malfeasance.

Whenever I had sexual feelings or thoughts, I felt accused and guilty. No one in my family had ever discussed sex around me. The attitude I absorbed was not so much that — polite people never thought about sex, but that no one did. I didn’t know anyone outside my family, so this code affected me strongly, convincing me that people should emulate the wholesome asexuality of Barbie and Ken, that we should behave as though we had no “down there’s” down there.

As a man in my thirties, I still felt embarrassed by my sexuality. It seemed to be utterlv without purpose in my life, except to mortify me when I became aroused during bed baths. I would not talk to my attendants about the orgasms I had then, or the profound shame I felt. I imagined they, too, hated me for becoming so excited.

I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be held, caressed, and valued. But my self-hatred and fear were too intense.

I doubted I deserved to be loved. My frustrated sexual feelings seemed to be just another curse inflicted upon me by a cruel God.

I had fallen in love with several people, female and male, and waited for them to ask me out or seduce me. Most of the disabled people I knew in Berkeley were sexually active, including disabled people as deformed as I. But nothing ever happened. Nothing was working for me in the passive way that I wanted it to, the way it works in the movies.

In 1985, I began talking with Sondra, my therapist, about the possibility of seeing a sex surrogate. When Sondra had originally mentioned the idea — explaining that a sexual therapist worked with a client’s emotional problems concerning sex, while a surrogate worked with a client’s body — I had been too afraid to discuss it. I rationalized that someone who was not an attendant, nurse, or doctor would be horrified at seeing my pale, thin body with its bent spine, bent neck, washboard ribcage, and hipbones protruding like outriggers. I also dismissed the idea of a surrogate because of the expense. A few years earlier, I had phoned a sex surrogate at the suggestion of another therapist. The surrogate told me that she charged according to a sliding scale that began at $70 an hour.

But now my situation had changed. I was earning extra money writing articles and book reviews. My rationalizations began to strike me as flimsy.

Still, it was not an easy decision. What would my parents think? What would God think? I suspected that my father and mother would know even before God did if I saw a surrogate. The prospect of offending three such omniscient beings made me nervous.

Sondra never pushed me one way or another; she rold me the choice was mine. She gave me the phone number for the Center on Sexuality and Disability at the University of California in San Francisco. I fretted over whether I would call; whether I would call and immediately hang up; whether I would ever do anything important on my own. Very reluctantly, when no one was around, I called the number, after assuring myself that nothing terrible would happen. I never felt convinced nothing terrible would happen, but I was able to take it on faith — a frail, stumbling, wimpy faith. With my eyes closed, I recited the number to the operator; I was afraid she’d recognize it. She didn’t.

“UCSF,” a voice answered crisply.

Trying to control the shakiness of my voice, I asked for the Center on Sexuality and Disability. I was told the Center had closed — and, momentarily, I felt immeasurably relieved. But I could be given a number to get in touch with the therapists who had once worked there. Would I like that? Uh-oh, another decision. I said OK. But at that number I was told to call another number. There, I was i-eferred to yet another number, then another, then another. I quickly made these calls, not allowing myself time to change my mind, I finally reached someone who promised te mail me a list of the Center’s former therapists who were in private practice.

About this time, a TV talk show featured two surrogates. I watched with suspicion: were surrogates the same as prostitutes? Although they might gussy it up with some psychology, weren’t they doing similar work?

The surrogates did not look like my stereotypes of hookers: no heavy make-up, no spray-on jeans. The female surrogate was a registered nurse with a master’s in social work. The male surrogate, looking comfortable in his business suit, worked with gay and bisexual men. The surrogates emphasized that they deal mostly with a client’s poor self-image and lack of self-esteem, not just the act of sex itself. Surrogates are trained in the psychology and physiology of sex so they can help people resolve serious sexual difficulties. They aren’t hired directly, but through a client’s therapist. Well aware of the likelihood that a client could fall in love with them, they set a limit of six to eight sessions. They maintain a professional relationship by addressing a specific sexual dysfunction; they aren’t interested in just providing pleasure, but in bringing about needed changes. As I learned more about surrogates, I began to think that perhaps a surrogate could help someone even as screwed-up and disabled as me.

When Sondra went on vacation, I phoned Susan, one of the sex therapists on the list I got from UCSF, and made an appointment to see her in San Francisco. I felt delighted that I could do something about my sexuality without consulting Sondra; perhaps that’s why I did it. I was not sure whether calling the therapist was the right thing to do in Sondra’s absence, or whether it was even necessary, but it felt good to me.

The biggest obstacle to seeing Susan turned out to be the elevator at the Powell Street subway stop, which went from the subterranean station to the street. Because of my curved spine, I cannot sit up straight in a standard wheelchair, so I use a reclining wheelchair which is about five and a half feet long. The elevator in the BART station was about five feet across, diagonally. Dixie, my attendant, raised the back of my wheelchair as high as she could and just barely managed to wrestle me and herself into the elevator. But when we reached street level, she could not get me out. This was ridiculous: if I could get in, the laws of physics should permit me to get out. But the laws of physics were in a foul mood that day. Dixie and I went down to the station level and discovered that I could get out down there. We complained to the station agent, who seemed unable to understand. We tried the elevator again. The door opened on a view of Powell Street. Dixie tried lifting and pushing the wheelchair out of that cigar-box elevator in every possible way.

“Well, do you want to go back to Berkeley?” she asked in frustration.

I thought what a waste it would be to go back now. I told her to raise the back of my wheelchair even higher. It put a tremendous strain on my thigh muscles, but now Dixie was able to wheel me out of the elevator with ease. Liberated, we strolled Powell Street, utterly lost.

Eventually, we found Susan’s office. Right away, I realized I could trust her. She knew what to ask and how to ask it in a way that didn’t frighten me. I described to her my feelings about sex, my fantasies, my self-hate, and my interest in seeing a surrogate. She told me the truth: it would never be easy for me to find a lover because of my disability. She told me that her cerebral palsy, the only evidence of which was her limp, had repelled many people. I found this hard to believe. She was so bright, so caring, so pretty in her dark and angular way. (I was already developing a crush on her.)

Susan said that she knew of a verv good surrogate who lived in the East Bay, and that she would give the surrogate’s name and phone number to Sondra when she returned from her vacation. If I decided to go ahead with it, Sondra would call the surrogate and tell her to phone me.

Doing that now seemed less scary. Because of our talk, I had started to believe that my sexual desires were legitimate, that I could take charge of my sexuality and cease thinking of it as something alien.

When Sondra returned from vacation, she told me that she had a message from Susan on her answering machine. She asked why I had seen another therapist without informing her. Sondra seemed curious, not angry as I feared she might be — actually, as I feared my parents would have. I said that I wasn’t sure why I went to see Susan, but that I had felt odd discussing surrogates with Sondra, because she seemed to me to be so much like’my idealized mother-figure.

Meanwhile, I searched for advice from nearly everyone I knew. One friend told me in a letter to go ahead and “get laid.” Father Mike — a young, bearded priest from the neighborhood Catholic church — told me Jesus was never big on rules, that he often broke the rules out of compassion. No one advised me against seeing a surrogate, but everyone told me I would have to make my own decision.

Frustrated by my inability to get The Answer, a blinding flash that would resolve all my doubts and melt my indecision, I brooded. Why do rehabilitation hospitals teach disabled people how to sew wallets and cook from a wheelchair but not deal with a person’s damaged self-image? Why don’t these hospitals teach disabled people how to love and be loved through sex, or how to love our unusual bodies? I fantasized running a hospital that allowed patients the chance to see a surrogate, and that offered hope for a future richer than daytime TV, chess, and wheelchair basketball. But that was my dream of what I would do for others. What would I do for me?

What if I ever did meet someone who wanted to make love with me? Wouldn’t I feel more secure if I had already had some sexual experience? I knew I could change my perception of myself as a bumbling, indecisive clod, not just by having sex with someone, but by taking charge of my life and trusting myself enough to make decisions. One day, I finally said to Sondra I was ready to see a surrogate.

About a week later, my phone rang during my morning bed bath. It was the voice of a woman I had never heard before.

“Hello, Mark! This is Cheryl.”

I knew that it was the surrogate. She didn’t have to tell me.

“I could see you March 17 at 1 o’clock,” she said. “Would that be good for you?”

“Yeah, it would be. But I’m busy right now. Could you call me back this afternoon when I’ll be by myself?”

Now that I had decided to actually see a surrogate, I had another problem: where would I meet her? I didn’t have a bed, just an iron lung with a mattress barely wide enough for me. When Cheryl called back, she asked if I could come to her office, which is up a flight of stairs. I told her that would be difficult. Finally, we agreed to meet at the home of one of my friends.

I was terribly nervous when I asked Marie whether I could use her place. I had visited her often in her spacious living room, which contains a double bed. Marie, who uses a wheelchair, had made the cottage she and her lover share completely accessible. It was also within walking distance (or wheelchair-pushing distance). When I told her about Cheryl, she readily agreed. – ” .

As the day approached, I became increasingly apprehensive. What if Cheryl took one look at me disabled, skinny, and deformed — and changed her mind? I imagined her sadly shaking her head and saying, “Oh no, I’m sorry, I didn’t know….” She would be polite, but she would flee from me.

On the phone, Cheryl had explained that she would interview me for the first hour of the session; then, if I agreed, we would do “body awareness exercises.” I was too scared to ask what this meant, but said I would give it a go.

When March 17 arrived, I felt unbearably nervous. I had to remind myself repeatedly that we were just going to talk about sex; in the second hour, we would do those “body awareness exercises,” whatever thev were, but onlyif I wanted to do them.

Vera, one of my morning attendants, dressed me, put me in my wheelchair, and pushed me to Marie’s cottage. Vera tried to reassure me, but it didn’t help. I felt as though I were going to my own execution.

We arrived at Marie’s place at 10:45. The door was locked and no one was home. Vera sat on a bench in the yard, lit a cigarette, and chatted amiably as I sweated out the minutes. An eternity passed: seven or eight minutes. Then I heard the buzzing sound of Marie’s electric wheelchair.

Once inside, Vera put a sheet I had brought with me on the double bed. Then she lowered me onto it. The bed was close to the floor, unlike my iron lung. Since it’s difficult for me to turn my head to the left, Vera pushed me over to the left side of the bed, so that Cheryl could lay next to me and I could still see her. Then Vera put the hose of my portable respirator near my mouth, in case I needed air. I thought it likely because I’d never been outside the iron lung for an hour without using the portable respirator. I was all set. I glanced at the noncommital green numerals flashing on the nearby digital clock. 11:04:30. Cheryl was late.

Marie talked with Vera as I waited. 11:07:43. 11:11:09. Oh God, would she ever come? Perhaps she had found out what an ugly, deformed creep I am and was breaking the appointment. 11:14:55. Oh God.

A knock on the door. Cheryl had arrived.

I turned my head as far to my left as I could. She greeted me, smiling, and walked to where I could see her better. She doesn’t hate me yet, I thought. She pulled a chair up to the bedside, apologized for being late, and talked about how everything had gone wrong for her that morning. Marie went out the door with Vera, saying that she would return at 1. Cheryl and I were alone.

“Your fee’s on top of the dresser,” I said, unable to think of anything else to say. She put the cash into her wallet, and thanked me.

She wore a black pantsuit, and her dark brown hair was tied behind her head. She had clear skin and large brown eyes and she seemed tall and strong, but then I’m 4′ 7″ and weigh sixty pounds. As we talked, I decided that she was definitely attractive. Was she checking out my looks? I was too scared to want to know.

Talking helped me to relax. She told me that she was forty-one, married to a psychiatrist, and had two teenaged children. She was descended from French-Canadians who had settled in Boston. “Boston?” I said. “That’s where I was born.” After talking about Boston for a while, I asked whether she was Catholic, like me. She told me she had left the Catholic church during her adolescence, when her priest condemned her sexual behavior.

I began to tell her about my life, my family, my fear of sexuality. I could see that she was accepting me and treating me with respect. I liked her, so when she asked me if I would feel comfortable letting her undress me, I said, “Sure.” I was bluffing, attempting to hide my fear.

My heart pounded — not with lust, but with pure terror — as she kneeled on the bed and started to unbutton my red shirt. She had trouble undressing me; I felt awkward and wondered if she would change her mind and leave once she saw me naked. She didn’t. After she took my clothes off, she got out of bed and undressed quickly. I looked at her full, pale breasts, but was too shy to gaze between her legs.

Whenever I had been naked before — always in front of nurses, doctors, and attendants — I’d pretend I wasn’t naked. Now that I was in bed with another naked person, I didn’t need to pretend: I was undressed, she was undressed, and it seemed normal. How startling! I had half-expected God — or my parents — to keep this moment from happening.

She stroked my hair and told me how good it felt. This surprised me; I had never thought of my hair, or any other part of me, as feeling or looking good. Having at least one attractive feature helped me to feel more confident, She explained about the body awareness exercises: first, she would run her hand over me, and I could kiss her wherever I wished. I told her I wished that I could caress her, too, but she assured me I could excite her with my mouth and tongue. She rubbed scented oil on her hands, then slowly moved her palms in circles over my chest and arms. She was complimenting me in a soft, steady voice, while I chattered nervously about everything that came to mind. I asked her if I could kiss one of her breasts. She sidled up to me so that I could kiss her left breast. So soft.

“Now if you kiss one, you have to kiss the other,” she said. “That’s the rule.”

Amused by her mock seriousness, I moved to her right breast. She told me to lick around the edge of the nipple. She said she liked that. I knew she was helping me to feel more relaxed, but that didn’t make her encouragements seem less true.

I was getting aroused. Her hand moved in its slow circles lower and lower as she continued to talk in her reassuring way and I continued my chattering. She lightly touched my cock — as though she liked it, as though it was fine that I was aroused. No one had ever touched me that way, or praised me for my sexuality. Too soon, I came.

After that, we talked a while. I told her about a woven Guatemalan bracelet a friend had given me for this occasion. She asked me whether I had any cologne; I said I did, but that I never wore it. That we could be talking about such mundane matters right after an intense sexual experience seemed strange at first. Another lesson learned: sex is a part of ordinary living, not an activity reserved for gods, goddesses, and rock stars. I realized that it could become a part of my life if I fought against my self-hatred and pessimism.

I asked Cheryl whether she thought I deserved to be loved sexually. She said she was sure of it. I nearly cried. She didn’t hate me. She didn’t consider me repulsive.

She got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and dressed. By then it was nearly 1. Taking an appointment book out of her purse, she told me that next time she wanted us to work on having intercourse. She asked me whether I had been afraid to see her that day; I admitted that I felt spasms of deep terror. She said it had been brave of me to go through with the session despite my fear.

The door opened. It was Marie and Dixie. They asked me about the experience. I told them it had changed my life. I felt victorious, cleansed, and relieved.

Dixie pushed me back to my apartment, through the quiet neighborhood of small, old houses and big, old trees. It was a warm day, which I hadn’t noticed on the way over. I asked Dixie about her first sexual experience. When she described it, I felt admitted to something from which I had always felt excluded: the world of adults.

Back home, Dixie put me into the iron lung and set up my computer so that I could write. Pounding the keys with my mouthstick, I wrote in my journal as quickly as I could about my experience, then switched off the computer and tried to nap. But I couldn’t. I was too happy. For the first time, I felt glad to be a man.

When I saw Cheryl the second time, two weeks later, I felt more relaxed and confident. We chatted briefly, but there was no formal interview. After pulling down the window shades, she undressed me with more ease than before. I felt less afraid and embarrassed. As I watched her undress, I anticipated the sight of her breasts. There they were, full and rounded. Before she could even get into the bed, I had climaxed. I felt angry at myself for being unable to control the timing of my orgasms but Cheryl said she would try to stimulate me to another orgasm. I didn’t believe that she could arouse me again, but I trusted her more now and let her try.

She lightly scratched my arms, which, to my surprise, I liked. I spent a lot of time kissing and licking her breasts. I asked her to rub the eternally itchy place behind my balls, which she said was called the perineum. The use of such a dignified Latin word to name a place that didn’t even have a name, as far as I had known, struck me as funny. I screamed with delight as she rubbed me, surprised that my body could feel so much pleasure. Then, I felt a warmth around my cock. I realized that Cheryl wasn’t beside me anymore.

“Know what I was doing?” she asked a few seconds later.

“No.”

“I was sucking you.”

It wasn’t long before I had another erection. Aroused and more confident, I said I wanted to try to have intercourse with her, so she quickly scrambled into place over me, her knees by my side. I breathed more rapidly, filled with anticipation, a feeling of this is it. She nearly stepped on my feet, which rattled me a little. Reassuring me, she held my cock and rubbed it against her, but when she tried to place it inside her, I panicked. For reasons I still don’t understand, I felt that I couldn’t fit. Perhaps I feared success. Perhaps intercourse would prove I was an adult, something I had never been willing to acknowledge. Perhaps it would suggest that I could have had intercourse long before, if I hadn’t contracted polio, if I hadn’t been so fearful, if…. I did not want to contemplate this long chain of ifs.

I insisted to Cheryl that I couldn’t fit into her vagina. She said that couldn’t be. Then suddenly I came again — outside of her.

I felt humiliated. Cheryl asked me if I had enjoyed myself. I said, “Oh yes, up to the anti-climax.” She assured me that she had enjoyed it, which cheered me somewhat. And it was still pleasant for me, iying beside her, the two of us naked. I told her I wanted to recite a poem I’d memorized for this occasion, Shakespeare’s eighteenth sonnet:

Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date …

I stumbled through it, forgetting phrases, stopping starting again, but I made it to the end:

As long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Cheryl said thst she was touched, that it was sweet of me to recite the poem. I felt glad that I was now a giver of pleasure, not merely a passive recipient.

An attendant came and took me home. I ate supper, exhausted and contented. But the next day I worried: why had I panicked? Would I ever be able to have intercourse with Cheryl? With any woman?

* * *

Marie told me that she couldn’t let me use her house for the next appointment because she and her lover were going out of town. So I called Neil, a disabled playwright who lives in a large apartment building in my neighborhood. Although I hadn’t known him long, he readily agreed. But he told me that his mattress was on the floor of his bedroom. That worried me because this would make it difficult, perhaps impossible, for an attendant to lift me back into my wheelchair.

On the day of the appointment, Dixie took me to Neil’s building. Neil has a rare disabling condition which impairs his speech, but allows him to stand and hop about on one foot. There he was, standing on one foot beside his wheelchair, which he had parked outside the building’s entrance. Upon seeing us, he plunked himself into his wheelchair and led us to the elevators. Once inside the apartment, Dixie pushed me into the bedroom and eyed the mattress with skepticism, saying that she could easily put me on it but feared that she would hurt her back lifting me later. After a minute of mutual indecision, she picked me up from the wheelchair and set me down on the mattress. After she made sure that I was comfortable, she and Neil left.

I lay there looking at Neil’s clock and wondering whether Cheryl would ever arrive. Neil had told me he would wait for Cheryl outside the building to give her the keys. What if Neil had become bored waiting and left? Was Cheryl coming at all?

After waiting for forty minutes, I heard some noise in the outer room. It was Cheryl, who apologized for being late.

As Cheryl undressed me and herself, I noticed that I wasn’t becoming aroused. I felt proud of my self-control and began to think of myself as a mature, sophisticated man, accustomed to being in a bedroom with a naked woman.

She got into the bed with me and began to stroke my thighs and cock. I climaxed instantly. I loathed myself for coming so soon, in the afterglow of my man-of-the-world fantasies. Undismayed, Cheryl began to stroke me, scratch me, and kiss me slowly. Reminding me of our previous session, she assured me that I could have a second orgasm. She said that she would rub the tip of my cock around her vagina. Then she would put it into her. I couldn’t see what was going on down there and I was too excited to sort out the tactile sensations. Suddenly, I had another orgasm.

“Was I inside of you?” I asked.

“Just for a second,” she said.

“Did you come, too?”

She raised herself and lay beside me,

“No, Mark, I didn’t. But we can try some other time if you want.”

“Yes, I want.”

After she got off the mattress, she took a large mirror out of her tote bag. It was about two feet long and framed in wood. Holding it so that I could see myself, Cheryl asked what I thought of the man in the mirror. I said that I was surprised I looked so normal, that I wasn’t the horribly twisted and cadaverous figure I had always imagined myself to be. I hadn’t seen my genitals since I was six years old. That was when polio struck me, shriveling me below my diaphragm in such a way that my view of my lower body had been blocked by my chest. Since then, that part of me had seemed unreal. But seeing my genitals made it easier to accept the reality of my manhood.

Cheryl was still dressing when Dixie came into the apartment. Dixie dressed me and, lifting me with surprising ease, got me back into the wheelchair. Cheryl told me she would be out of town for a couple of weeks. She looked at her schedule book. “How would the twenty-ninth be for you?”

“It’s OK with me,” I said. “I’ll just have to check with Neil or Marie to see if I can get a place.”

“Well, just leave a message on my machine.”

* * *

Having failed for a second time to have intercourse worried me. I became obsessed with this failure during the three weeks between appointments. What was wrong with me? Was I afraid that having intercourse represented aggression against women? Was it my lack of experience, or was it something deeper than that, something I could never figure out?

Before my next appointment, I was visited by Tracy, a former attendant who had worked for me in the early Eighties while she studied at Berkeley. I had tried not to fall in love with her back then, but she was just too appealing. Young, bright, and pretty, she understood me thoroughly and was the wittiest person I’d ever known. Tracy was involved with another man; she maintained a warm friendship with me, but she made it clear that she was not interested in a romantic relationship. I felt awkward: I had told her that I loved her in a state of terrified, embarrassed passion a few years earlier.

I was waiting for Tracy in my wheelchair when she entered my apartment. She leaned over so that I could kiss her cheek. Then she kissed mine.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you,” she replied cheerfully.

We went to a cafe and talked about her boyfriend and my experiences with Cheryl. She said that she felt proud of me for having the courage to see a surrogate. I felt terrific talking with her and tried to prolong the conversation by asking her everything I could think of about her graduate studies, her boyfriend, her parents, her brothers, her past, and her plans for the future. Eventually, though, we both ran out of words. She wanted to see other friends in Berkeley, so she took me back to my apartment.

After Tracy left, I was saddened by the undeniable knowledge that she felt no sexual attraction for me. Who could blame her? I was seldom attracted to disabled women. Many young, healthy, good-looking men had been drawn to Tracy, who was in a position to pick and choose. My only hope seemed to be in trusting that working with Cheryl would help me in the event that I should meet someone else as splendid as Tracy.

The next time I saw Cheryl, she said that this time, she would minimize the foreplay and get on top of me as soon as I told her I was becoming aroused. She had the mirror with her again and held it up to me before she got into the bed. This time, I climaxed at seeing myself erect in the mirror. Cheryl got into the bed and adjusted herself so that I could give her cunnilingus. I had to stop it after a minute or so because I began to feel as though I were suffocating. But I had wanted to do something to give her pleasure, so I asked her whether I could put my tongue in her ear. She said no, she disliked that, but it was good that I asked.

“Some women like it. I just happen to hate it. Different women react differently to the same stimulus. That’s why you should always ask.”

When she started stroking my cock, I told her to get on top. Quick. I was feeling the onset of an erection. She got over me and with one hand she guided me into her.

“Is it in?”

“Yes, it’s in.”

I couldn’t believe it. Here I was having intercourse and it didn’t feel like the greatest thing in the world. Intercourse was certainly pleasant, but I had enjoyed the foreplay — the kissing, the rubbing, the licking — more. Too soon, I came. She kept holding me inside her. Then a look of pleasure brushed lightly over her face, as though an all-day itch were finally being scratched. Letting me go, she pur her hands down on the bed by my shoulders and kissed my chest.

This act of affection moved me deeply. I hadn’t expected it; it seemed like a gift from her heart. My chest is unmuscular, pale, and hairless, the precise opposite of what a sexy man’s chest is supposed to be. It has always felt like a very vulnerable part of me. Now it was being kissed by a caring, understanding woman and I almost wept.

“Did you come?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

I was exultant. She got out of the bed and went into the bathroom. Hearing her pee made me feel as though we were longtime lovers, familiar and comfortable with each other’s bodily functions. When she came out of the bathroom and began dressing herself, I asked her if she thought I should buy a futon so that I could have sex in my apartment.

“I don’t know if I should get a futon now or wait … till something comes up.”

“You may want to get one now because you never know when something will come up. And if you wait till then, by the time you get the futon, it might be all over.”

I asked her whether she thought we should have another session. She said she would do whatever I thought best.

“Do you think there’s anything to be gained from another time?” she asked.

“No,” I said, relieved that I would not have to spend any more money. I had just enough to buy a futon. And besides, I’d had intercourse. What was there left to do? Later that year, I bought the futon, dark blue with an austere pattern of flowers and rushes.

* * *

I began this essay in 1986, then set it aside until last year. In re-reading what I originally wrote, and my old journal entries from the time, I’ve been struck by how optimistic I was, imagining that my experience with Cheryl had changed my life.

But my life hasn’t changed. I continue to be isolated, partly because of my polio, which forces me to spend five or six days a week in an iron lung, and partly because of my personality. I am low-key, withdrawn, and cerebral.

My personality, it may be said, is a result of my disability, because of which I have spent most of my life apart from people my own age. Whatever the cause, my isolation continues, along with the consequent celibacy. Occasional visitors sit on the futon, but I’ve never lain on it.

I wonder whether seeing Cheryl was worth it, not in terms of the money but in hopes raised and never fulfilled. I blame neither Cheryl nor myself for this feeling of letdown. Our culture values youth, health, and good looks, along with instant solutions. If I had received intensive psychotherapy from the time I got polio to the present, would I have needed to see a sex surrogate? Would I have resisted accepting the cultural standards of beauty and physical perfection? Would I have fallen into the more familiar pattern of flirting, dating, and making out which seems so common among people who have been disabled during or after adolescence?

One thing I did learn was that intercourse is not an expression of male aggression, but a gentle, mutually playful experience. But has that knowledge come too late?

Where do I go from here? People have suggested several steps I could take. I could hire prostitutes, advertise in the personals, or sign up for a dating service. None of these appeal to me. Hiring a prostitute implies that I cannot be loved, body and soul, just body or soul. I would be treated as a body in need of some impersonal, professional service — which is what I’ve always gotten, though in a different form, from nurses and attendants. Sex for the sake of sex alone has little appeal to me because it seems like a ceremony whose meaning has been forgotten.

As for the personals and dating services, sure, I’d like to meet people, but what sort of ad could I write?

Severely disabled man, 41, living in iron lung he can escape but twice a week seeks… .

Which brings up the question – what do I seek? I don’t know. Someone who likes me and loves me and who will promise to protect me from all the self-hating parts of myself? An all-purpose lover-mommy-attendant to care for all my physical and emotional needs? What one friend calls a “shapely savior” — a being so perfect that she can rescue me from the horror that has been imposed upon me and the horror I’vee imposed upon myself? Why bother? I ask myself. I don’t. Not anymore.

Which leaves me where I was before I saw Cheryl. I’ve met a few women nearly as wonderful as Tracy, but they haven’t expressed any romantic interest in me. I feel no enthusiasm for the seemingly doomed project of pursuing women. My desire to love and be loved sexually is equalled by my isolation and my fear of breaking out of it. The fear is two-fold. I fear getting nothing but rejections. But I also fear being accepted and loved. For this latter happens, I will curse myself for all the time and life that I have wasted.

By Mark O’Brien This essay was published in the May, 1990 issue (#174) of The Sun.

[small-tale]

the process of dying

“Make sure you talk to them like you mean it.” My jovial volunteer coordinator had reminded me for the umpteenth time. “They really love conversation, and it keeps the gears goin’ so it’s pretty crucial.”

It was a relatively warm winter’s Sunday in Ann Arbor. I sat in the Clarebridge Memory Clinic with my fellow student, Zara, across from a very happy lady.  She had opened our conversation by thanking us profusely for coming – “We don’t see a lot of volunteers often.”

It was the first year of my undergraduate career, and as majorless egotistical dilettante, I had found my way into a Psychology Outreach course.  The class was interactive – it involved students going to various institutions and volunteering there throughout the semester. It was for students, as the online description elaborated: “to learn about psychology in action, to explore themselves and their interests, and to provide meaningful service to people in the community.”  There were numerous institutions available – prisons and correctional facilities; daycare centers; elementary schools; but I had elected to follow the hospice route. There was no specific reason, other than it seemed more interesting to observe and interact with Alzheimer’s patients and hear their stories over that of a baby.

Yet in the moment Zara and I had arrived at Clarebridge, there was a deep unsettling sense of apprehension.  I could not tell whether the clinic was inviting or too monotonous.  Its interior reminded me of a low-grade hotel, something you would see in a Holiday Inn or a La Quinta.  Clarebridge residents strolled about, just like any senior home would have, the only difference was that these people carried an enigmatic air.

Zara, who was genuinely interested in pursuing a medical field, looked far more unprepared than I did.  Our volunteer coordinator, Linda, had guided us around the facility introducing us to some residents.  “Are there ever any emergencies?” Zara asked quietly.

“Often.” Linda replied sadly.  “Sometimes they wander out into the yard and we have no idea where they went.  That’s usually the case, but it varies.  As these people get older they slowly lose a lot of their functionality.  One man here, Lou, he can’t talk, move, or eat without our help.”

Zara and I looked at each other in alarm.  “The ones in the catatonic states require a bit more help, so trained professionals will be attending to them, not you two. Still, it’s always nice for you to sit around and be with them – with anyone, truly. Our policy here is that nobody stays alone.  Some of these folk, they don’t have much family left and they’re at the end of their rope.  In the process of dying, I sit with them as they pass holding their hands.  We don’t let anyone here go out by themselves.”

That was nice, I thought, though Zara looked concerned. While walking around, we were introduced to many residents, most of whom did not seem to possess a trace of dementia or Alzheimer’s.  There was Babs, a talkative woman with a Golden-Girls sense of humor; wheel-chair confined Margaret, who had long salt-and-pepper-hair and big bug-eyed glasses; Katherine, a peculiar resident who talked a lot about California and seemed to work in the clinic’s offices as if it were her job; and Mr. Sun, a former architect.

A rather sing-songy woman, Lucille, whose hair was fiery red and make-up worn frighteningly like a doll, engaged me for a while.  She spoke fluidly and carried with her a delicate sense of snootiness and posh refinement.  I played piano for her while she sang.  I should disclaim that I am not a particularly good pianist, only able to read chords and play them in rhythm – but that did not stop Lucille from singing. She joyously found ballads in the notes I plucked.  Zara laughed as Lucille danced around, as if on stage.  

That evening, on the bus ride home, I confessed to Zara I was relieved: “I thought they all would be vegetables – you know?”

I did not return to Clarebridge until the next week, this time without my partner.  Linda greeted me from the office where Katherine waved and emerged with her walker to inform me I was in time for lunch.  “They all work so hard in there,” Katherine confided. “But the boss won’t pay them overtime.  It hits noon and I tell them to get outta the office and go eat, but they just refuse to budge.  Some of them eat in there!” She exclaimed.

“They work so hard,” Katherine shook her head as we made our way to the cafeteria – a cozy little restaurant styled square.  “But it’s all for nothing.”

“You work pretty hard too,” I said, knowing her secretarial roots.

“Oh yes, I know.” Katherine nodded. “I’m from California, you know?  This is only temporary.  I’m saving up so I can go back – to California.”

Katherine and I ate together in merriment.  She was talkative, which I enjoyed.  I had a habit of being gregarious, and unashamedly so. Katherine was not shy in disclosing her family – four brothers, four sisters, she was the second youngest. Her littlest sister was her baby, and had owned a hair salon out in San Francisco.  Katherine seemed to have lived in California all her life, so just when I was about to discover how she migrated to cold frigid Michigan, Babs bounced by and joined our conversation.

Babs was a riot – filled with jokes and prattling. She called Ann Arbor “Lady Ann,” and wore a pin on her sweater. “I always wear a pin.” She told me. “Because if I ever to stick somebody, it’s right here.” She patted the dove that sat above her breast pocket.  

The rest of the evening was spent on the piano with Lucille.  We played jazz standards and eventually she was so worn out she pulled a chair up and sat beside me.  “Why don’t you just play, and I’ll listen.”

It seemed to me Lucille was perhaps a socialite when she was younger.  The pictures on the mantelpiece always displayed her – from their 1920s Theme Party on New Years all the way till the Halloween Costume Ball, Lucille dominated the frames.  She adored pearl necklaces, cardigans, and spoke with a sweet Irish timbre.  

It was now 7:30pm and I was packed and ready to go when Linda called me into her office to speak briefly.  “What you’re doing is very important.” Linda graciously told me. “You are so good with them, I can tell. They really love your presence.”

Feeling triumphant, I bussed back home deep in thought. I really enjoyed my time at Clarebridge. It was not so daunting to socialize with these people, and their presence seemed to have enriched me.  I kept thinking this was what it felt to be fulfilled.  Their stories were inspiring, and my raconteur tendencies made me desperate to pen them into a fantastic tale of inspiration and empowerment.

About a week or so later, I sat in the commons watching television with the residents.  I already had walked with Katherine around the building several times – “These people they work so hard.  But you know, they don’t get paid overtime.  I’m only here temporarily ‘cause I’m going back to California,” before I plopped down to take a quick break.  The Boston Bombings had just occurred and all of us were glued to the screen.  “What a time.” One resident murmured.  “Just when that elementary school was shot up, this goes and happens.”

It was that afternoon I was sitting with Mr. Sun and his wife and eldest son.  Sunny, as they called him, sat beside us coolly without much word.  Throughout my time at Clarebridge, I was always drawn to Sunny.  I think it was because we shared a common ethnicity and love of the arts.  He was fond of painting – his bedroom had many gorgeous works hanging about.  His wife, who was far more talkative, had an amazing conversation with me.  Their eldest child, Steven, was a concert pianist in New York.  He came to visit his father every month, whereas Mrs. Sunny came nearly every day. They were a remarkable family portrait – one that survived communist rule, the tail-end of the Cultural Revolution, and the Tiananmen Square Riots.  

“I think about him all the time.” Steven told me. “I hate to live so far, but my partner’s work is there and…it’s hard to leave.”

“Partner?” I asked inquisitively.

“Oh yes,” Steven grew shy. “My partner…”

“Your boyfriend?” I assumed.  

He nodded.

I looked at Mr. and Mrs. Sunny with surprise.  I too came from a Chinese family of immigrants, but they were harshly conservative and did not tolerate my homosexuality.  Yet here these people were, mother and father who were totally tolerant and loving of their gay son.   I had to admit I was surprised, even jealous.  

“I have to admit,” I confessed to her later when Steven had left.  “I assumed most Chinese parents would be intolerant of a gay son or daughter.”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Sunny told me.  “I love Steven very much, I am always proud of him.  I think humanity is strange, but love is at its core just love.”

“You know,” I began. “They’re trying to overturn LGBT civil rights in several states right now?  And that all these congressmen hate the idea of marriage equality.”

She looked concerned.  “These people,” she began. “They will ruin our country someday.”

In combination with our visitations, the volunteers at Clarebridge would meet together on days and recount their exploits. Our discussions were facilitated by another undergraduate who had taken the class previously and I often was surprised to hear the stories that my peers would relate.  Zara seemed to have lots of trouble making friends with the residents – though I felt that was inherent in her shy nature.  She recounted a story of where they argued with her and she could not bear it so she simply left the room.

Others had similar experiences, only I was the one who seemed to bring something positive each session. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.” One remarked to me. “You’re always sitting at tables talking to them.  You’re like an interviewer or a talk-show host.”

I did not necessarily take that as a compliment, as I felt my experiences with them were more intimate and enriching, yet I could not deny that in some ways, the only method of getting a resident to converse was to just keep asking questions.   “Sometimes you don’t even need to talk back.” I admitted. “Because they can just go on and on.”

I returned to Clarebridge the next weekend almost having finished my necessary hours.  Linda greeted me from the office and Katherine immediately buzzed out for our routine walk. “It’s lunch time,” she murmured.  “And they’re in there working overtime.  I told them, ‘You know the boss doesn’t pay for your breaks, right?’ But they just ignore me.” She repeated to me for the umpteenth time.  “But, it’s no skin off my back.  I’m here only temporarily.  I’m from California, and I’m going back.”

Katherine had become quite an annoyance.  I was sick of hearing the same story over and over again, so I opted to have lunch with somebody new: I approached the cafeteria and found Babs who was with Margaret.

Margaret was one of those individuals who I had never connected with.  She was cold and silent, often annoyed by the residents around her.  Margaret eyed me suspiciously as I said hello to Babs.

“Howdy-doody.” Babs grinned.

“What are you eating?” I forced conversation.

Margaret remained intensely silent as I spoke with Babs, and when she finished her meal I turned to Margaret and smiled.  “Hi Marge.” I said politely.  “How are you doing today?”

“How do you know my name?” She snapped back.

“I know all the residents’ names.  I’m a volunteer here.”

“Oh.” She responded, no longer alarmed.  “How do you do?”

I shifted in my seat as I thought about how to approach developing rapport.  I desperately wanted to conquer Margaret – becoming her friend was my final conquest. It was a challenge I relished undertaking.  Her long hair, like a witch’s, was silver and frayed – and from behind her bug-lensed glasses she looked at me intently.

“So Margaret,” I began. “Where are you from?”

“Maryland.”  She replied curtly.

“Maryland, how did you get all the way out here?!” I asked with faux-surprise.

She shrugged and then I continued.  “Did you always live in Maryland? Or did you move around a lot?”

“No,” Margaret shook her head and Babs chuckled a bit.

There was a brief caesura, but it felt like an eternity to me.

“Did you ever go to school?”

“’Course I went to school.” Margaret replied.

“I’m sorry, I meant to say ‘college’ or ‘university.’” I amended.

“Why does that matter?” She raised her eyebrow.  

“Just curious,” I confessed.  “I just want to get to know everybody as well as possible.”

“Oh.” Margaret returned.  “No, I did not go to college.”

“What did you do for a living?” I continued.  

Margaret smiled.  “I worked for the president.”  She responded with delight.

“Whoa.” I gasped.  “The president!? What did you do?”

“Not gonna say.” Margaret responded happily.  “Not gonna say.”

“Why, because it’s top secret?” I pressed.

“No, because you don’t need to know.” She snapped.

Suddenly, my heart sank.  I felt led on.  I sat back into my chair and looked at her strangely.  What had just transpired? “I’m sorry, did you say it was secretive?” I asked bewildered, hoping I had misheard her.

This only seemed to upset her more.

“I said, ‘because YOU don’t need to know.” She declared. “You’re nosy. You know that?  Why do you wanna know all these things?  Why do you wanna get to know me?”

I could not answer in time.  I intended to say something along the lines of ‘because it’s my responsibility to get to know you,’ or something clerical – but the words could not manifest.  Margaret would not let me continue and she vindicated: “You wanna know these things because you’re nosy.”

“I’m not nosy.” I protested finally.

“Oh no,” Babs responded.  “You are.  You are very nosy.”  

I was aghast – The cheerful, happy Babs?  What kind of joke was this she was working on? I half-expected a punchline about my nose, so that we could end the conversation, but Babs and Marge seemed indignant.  I stood up shakily and replied: “I don’t mean to be nosy.”

“Then stop butting in all the time.” Marge rolled her eyes.  “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.  We can keep it like that.”

I looked to Babs and asked helplessly: “Do you agree with this?”  

She only glanced away.  I grabbed my things and walked to the bus stop, enraged.  Anger pulsed through my entire being.  If that was the way they wanted to act after how generous I was to them, then fine let it be.  Their behavior was shockingly immature, I reminded myself.  No sensible human would ever be so cruel like that.

I did not return to Clarebridge that next day, nor the following week.  I did not think I could face seeing Margaret again, nor Babs after her betrayal.  I did not relate the experience at session, nor did I feel the need to write about it in my final paper.  I wanted to erase the two of them from my existence. Yet suddenly, I felt awash in shame – did everyone else think that about me?  The more and more I reflected, I did remember one or two people remarking that I ‘asked a lot of questions’ in jest.  

The thought that this was all superficial scared me. I had only two hours left to complete for my volunteering and my grade would be in jeopardy if I did not return. I decided that my final trip to Clarebridge would only involve saying goodbye to Sunny.  Hopefully his wife would be there, for she and I always passed the time easily.

When I arrived, the paramedics were parked outside and I was told Linda was inside a bedroom.  I could sense an emergency and my panic increased as I approached the wing where Sunny lived.  To my relief, he was not injured, but one of the residents had passed just before I arrived. Linda walked out, as the paramedics rolled a covered body on a stretcher.   “One of the special residents.” Linda told me over lunch.  “He had held out a long time.  A real long time.”

+ + +

Towards the end of the day, I said my goodbyes to my favorite residents and hoped that one day I would find the time to come back. As I made my way to the commons I saw Babs who gave me a short and awkward nod before bumbling away.  From across the room, Marge greeted me with a cold stare.  I wanted to apologize to her, for being nosy, but for some reason I could not bring myself too.  Whether it was a mixture of pride and embarrassment, or that the situation just did not seem fruitful to even try, I left her there, alone.  

I have not since returned to Clarebridge, though I often think about the residents and their disease.  I convinced myself that if I do even try to return, they would not remember me anyway.  The ones who were fully-functional must have degenerated by now, and many of them had better things in their lives to be concerned with than with some college brat who was desperately seeking fulfillment.  At first, that statement seemed ludicrous to me – their entire lives were confined to one building, mitigated by a few administrative staff that depended desperately on volunteers.  Yet, strangely, I could not help but think of Linda’s first few words she had told Zara and I at our orientation.

“Every day is just one step.  You reward them on their accomplishments – and that can be anything.  For some people, it’s successfully completing a meal.  You acknowledge that.  For others, it’s taking a bite and swallowing it down.  Acknowledge it.”

As I walked out, I thought of how nosy and intrusive I had been in their lives.  Perhaps apologizing would have been too precocious of me anyhow.  Still, I wish I had done something rather than just leave. It was my intention to have had left this experience having learned something important.  I wanted them to have impacted my life in some way – for myself to receive epiphany and understand the world through a different lens rather than myopic self.  And in one light, that happened: I was told to never leave them alone, especially in the prickly process of dying, which I failed because of too much shame.

That final day, Katherine waited by the door.  “Heading out for the night?” She asked with a grin.

I nodded, knowing that she would go on to follow this repetition until she too eventually fell into her catatonic state.

“Goodbye Katherine.”

“Alright, goodbye now.” She waved.  “Have a safe trip.”

“Have a safe trip back to California,” I returned.

She beamed warmly.  “I can’t wait to go back.” She cooed.  “My family is there. I have four brothers and four sisters.  I can’t wait to be with them again.”

THE PROCESS OF DYING By Greg Strasser Published: 5/30/16

[small-tale]

break the surface

The year is 2010 and I am standing at the edge of a frigid pool in my high school natatorium at 6:04am silently cursing underneath my breath.

A few months previous, I had told my mother I was cut from the swim-team tryouts and waited about an hour after school before calling my father to come pick me up.  I ran my hair and swim suit underneath a bathroom sink faucet before coming home, happily distraught about being taken out of try-outs.  In her vehemence, she called the coach to demand a reason why – only to be given a puzzled answer: “I’m afraid I don’t know who your son is.”

The truth was, the swim team was a walk-on. Try-outs were mere formalities, or rather, a cruel introduction to a sport that my high school was notoriously bad at.  My mother – delusional and obsessed with the idea that a body like mine could gain some bulk after a few months on the swim team – furiously drove me to school the next morning, promising to lock me out of the house if I did not go to practice.

Flash forward to now, and Coach Z is standing at the edge of the pool, blowing his whistle.  I am watching as the boys in my lane dive in and start their laps. Suddenly, I am next, and with teeth gritted I leap in reluctantly.  

In retrospect, the icy water was not as frigid as the veteran members on my team had exaggerated.  What was actually awful was getting up at 5:30 in the morning to jump into the chilly pool.  As I swim, I become exasperated.  My lane is the first lane in the pool, also known as the worst.  In my lane there are two other men – Joey, a boy who desperately wanted to get into shape; and Kyle – a senior with Down syndrome.

I don’t mean to sound morally superior or unforgivably rude, but Kyle was notoriously devious.  Since the moment I had come to the (second) first practice, he viewed me with contempt.  It seemed to me that while none of the other boys knew that I had faked trying out on the team, Kyle possessed a clairvoyance swimming around in that electric brain of his, and thus, knew my dirty little secret, and detested me for it.

He did not need to detest me for me to feel as awful as I did – his lap times had that covered.  For a boy with almost no physical coordination and a mental capacity of a kindergartener, Kyle was a really fast swimmer.  Occasionally, as I gasped for air in between my strokes, I could see Coach Z standing above me, relishing in my torture.

Swim practice was both physically demanding and taxing.  Practice was six days a week, with additional 6AM practices every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  The chlorine in the water bleached and fizzled my hair – and as a person who loved the dark, thick windswept look, a look I so painstakingly fought combs, scissors, and hair wax for, that was infuriating.  My skin cracked easily, my eyes were always dry, and everywhere I walked I was greeted with soreness.

I enjoyed the company of some of the men on my team, but as a closeted and artsy type, I found it difficult to connect with most. My only other companion, Edgar, openly gay and openly pompous at his Free 100 time, also came to detest me.

“I like him outside of swimming,” I heard him say in the hallway. “But on the team he’s such a bitch.”

Ultimately my greatest enemy came in the form of a whale – Jerry, who weighed around 300lbs. and was two lanes above me. Despite his immense weight, Jerry had a killer butterfly stroke that demolished races.  He was also a raging narcissist and an aggressive intellectual who competed with me in Speech and Debate, a sport I was proud to say I was very good at.  Yet here, Jerry, trounced me.  From rude jabs to overt accusations, I never felt safe around him.  

As a novice to anything, my go-to strategy was to observe how something was done before trying it.  In this case, I found that nearly impossible.  One afternoon, Coach Z called us to practice our take-offs. Half-heartedly he chided: “Go when you hear the buzzer.”

It was a simple enough direction, but when the captain of our swim team – a gorgeous WASP Republican kid named Brendan – took off to early, everyone jumped the gun in sequence.  Z made all of the swimmers get out of the water and try again.  Kyle cursed under his breath as he climbed out of the pool.  He flicked me the bird and then climbed up on the diving board once more.  “Swimmers, take your mark!” Z bellowed.  

Crash! This time Kyle dove in too early.  Ricky, the assistant coach, tapped me on the shoulder and nudged me to get on the podium first.  “Kyle’s slow, you know?” He smiled a toothy grin.  

Obviously he was slow, the kid had down syndrome.

I reluctantly climbed the podium, unsure of what the protocol was.  I refused to finish last place – as I had so many times.  And this instance, we were doing freestyle stroke, which Jerry was notoriously awful at.  I knew if I swam this I could beat him, and move myself out of the lane with Kyle. In my head, I thought: “The sequence goes: ‘Swimmers take your mark, buzz!’ and then take off.”

In actuality, the sequence went: “Swimmers, take your mark.  GET SET.  **BUZZ**”

As I pushed off from the podium, I could see from above Z take his stopwatch and furiously thrust it into the stands.  I bobbed up at the surface of the water, to see him storm out angrily.  I turned around and became painfully aware I was the only one in the pool.  Kyle giggled a storm as Jerry and his tits shook their heads at me in contempt.

Needless to say, my relationship with Coach Z did not improve.  Our disgust for each other was mutual.  To me, he was complacent, chubby, and needed to get his haircut at somewhere else besides a Great Clips.  To him, I was uninterested, unfazed, and really fucking gay.  And he was right.  I was. I took great joy in handing him several “I can’t make it to this competition” letters because of my conflict with Speech and Debate.  I knew he could not forsake me either, for Jerry was opting out as well.  

One evening, however, Z called me to his office and thrust the letter I had written to him about missing the upcoming meet.  “It’s a competition,” I explained. “I can’t miss it.”

“Jerry told me this one was an invitational, so he was willing to miss it for our meet.” Z explained. “If you miss three meets, you are ineligible for a varsity letter.”

While one aspect of me was disheartened that I would not receive varsity status, a more rational voice emerged from this conversation: “I’m sorry coach,” I explained. “But I made a commitment to Speech and Debate before I even joined swimming.  I want to honor both, but if this is compromise I have to make, then it’s what has to be done.”

He frowned a bit but nodded and sent me away.  I was perplexed at his apathetic reaction, especially since at this point in the game I had poured in close to twenty hours a week of practice and was slowly improving my times in freestyle and backstroke. I stopped coming in last, and got moved up a heat (though not a lane, which was my ultimate goal).  If anything, I was the most improved swimmer on the team, unlike poor Joey in my lane, who had not trimmed his times since the first day.

Secretly, I was irritated. I knew I would not return to the team next year – I told my parents I was miserable and unhappy and that the only reason I was partaking on the team was as punishment for my lie. They consented to this, and allowed me to quit after the season was finished.  This was the condition of our agreements, and although I had no sudden vagary, I was dismayed that I would not get the varsity letter after all.  I couldn’t even lie to myself – I did not want it for my college applications, or a jacket – which were hideous, I would never be caught dead in one – but merely I wanted it simply to say that I had accomplished it.

The next day, Z was no longer apathetic.  He wrote on our itinerary “ANIMAL KICK” which was a dreaded 10x100 (swimmerese for ten laps of four lengths across the pool (40 laps)) kick stroke that swimmers dreaded.  I found, however, clutching my kickboard, that it was relatively easy. I was keeping up with the fastest swimmers on the team and I finished only behind the top five.  As I climbed out of the pool Jerry yelled at me: “Greg, are you sure you finished?”

I nodded. “Yeah!”

Z looked right at me, eyes glaring.  “You’re finished?” He spat. “He’s a junior, you’re a sophomore.  I’m gonna believe him.  Get in the fucking water of get the fuck out.”

“But I – ”

“GET IN THE FUCKING WATER!” He screamed.  

Everybody snapped their heads in my direction. Tears were streaming in my goggles, but I jumped back in and kicked ten extra laps.  I finished with Kyle, dead last.  I went into the locker room enraged, that evening.  It was chillingly silent – not a single person spoke to me.

The next day in class Edgar and his friends chided me: “Stop pissing off Z.” they warned me. “Your attitude isn’t good for the team.”

It was wildly unfair of them to do. Nobody recognized any of my successes – how I cut my freestyle time by 40 seconds, or how I was promoted to the second level heat of two different medley strokes, or even how I fucking destroyed over half the team in the animal kick.  I contemplated arranging a meeting with Z to hash this out, but it did not seem realistic, and he was always unavailable when I needed to speak with him.

The day came to shave our heads for the league meet, a tradition I refused to take part in, only to be met with venomous hostility from nearly everyone.  I could not use Speech and Debate as an excuse either – for Jerry was already in the process of shaving.  I sat angrily as Edgar snipped my hair off. Seeing the locks fall into the drain was heartbreaking, but I gritted my teeth and looked into the mirror anyway. Before me was a kid I did not recognize – an angry fifteen year old cancer patient.  

Z walked in, head shaved (though he never had much hair anyway) and was shocked to see me.  I knew right away that he did not expect me to partake.  Yet there I was.  We exchanged a cold glance, and he approached me.  He nodded and then touched my scalp.  “Looks like you got nicked with the razor a little.” He said coolly.

For the next few weeks, we tapered – which was nice break from the intensive work outs we normally endured.  And then two nights before leagues, Z called us to the pool for our first major work out in a while: the animal kick. Round Two.

I got into the pool, indignant this time.  I would not finish dead last.  I would claim my rightful place among the top animal kickers on our team – justly.  And I did. Not even James, with the fastest 50 Free time on our team, overtook me.  I came in third place, and Z screamed gleefully as I came into the final length: “LET’S GO GREG, YOU’RE KEEPING UP WITH THE BIG DOGS!” He cried.

***

Today is our last 6am practice.  The water is cold, but not so cold that I am unavailable. The only hair on my body are my eyebrows and pubes.  As we finish our run, Z shakes our hands and reminds us of our Team Banquet that same evening.  He grasps my fingers warmly, and for a moment I think we will hug.  We do not, to my relief, but I am satisfied all the same.

At dinner, Z passes us folders.  I don’t open mine because I already know what it contains – a photobook of the past year, a certificate of completion, and the varsity letter which I would not be receiving.  As dinner comes to a close and the speeches are ending, I finally take a peek into the folder and see a dark blue knitted ‘B,’ tucked squarely into the pocket.  Behind the ‘B,’ which is inscribed onto a shield, is a large baron knight. Everyone is filing out and I approach Z warily:  “I thought I wasn’t supposed to get this?” I ask.

“I thought about it, and I decided that you really deserved it.” He said with a smile.

It might’ve been the first smile I had ever seen from him. It seemed disheartening now to tell him that I would not be returning next year.  Somehow, it occurs to me that he already knew.  As I walk out of the restaurant towards my mother’s car, I look at the knitted ‘B’ and nearly laugh.  A lot of misery and pain and suffering were toiled to earn such a mundane piece of cloth.  Yet, strangely, there was no regret of that year.  It was a surprise that I was disappointed in myself not returning to the team, a disappointment that beckoned at me all evening.

That evening, I sleep naked under the covers. Not all my hair has grown back yet. Sleeping naked, hairless, under the sheets is heavenly – chilly like the plunge into icy waters, but warm like the pool which wraps you like a blanket from the freezing air.  Pool water isn’t frigid, it’s only when you break the surface.

BREAK THE SURFACE By: Greg Strasser Published: 5/16/16

[small-tale]

a long unexpected party

Before the story, I want to begin with a disclaimer:I have been dry from sex for about a year and a half now.  Maybe two years. I guess that’s not TOTALLY true.  Last time I had sex it lasted two seconds, perhaps three.  The guy I was hooking up with had a big schlong and when he put it in me I begged him to pull out. The penetration hurt so bad that I refuse to even count it as ‘sex.’

I guess that’s a testament to my barrenness -- I hadn’t had sex in so long, that when I did try again, I was resealed.  Like a Ziploc bag, can you imagine?

A month ago, I flew out to New York City for a quick job and naturally I pulled out the stops on Tinder for fun - I like the attention.  About 24-hours into the city, I had numerous matches and one in particular was hitting me up hourly.  He was hot - a waspy, Ivy-league graduate type and amateur cyclist.  He asked to hang out with me, and I was a bit surprised at myself when I accepted his offer. 

Normally when I use apps like Tinder, it’s because I’m in a brand new place and I have no clue what to do, so matching with nearby residents is useful in learning about my surroundings.  I remember briefly doing it in Chicago and then another time in Atlanta.  Both instances I found myself (at my match’s tip) at a bar in some town and gown section of the city filled with underage students making out in cushions or dancing aggressively.

It was not my scene, needless to say, and me saying yes to Mr. Ivy League’s offer was highly out of character.

THURSDAY

I got to New York on Wednesday morning and matched with Mr. Ivy in the evening.  We chatted all night -- to the point where we were sending borderline sexts (though I could not masturbate since I was on my friend’s couch).  The next day, about 10am, he sent me a message saying his business was holding an event at a bar and he wondered if I were free.

I accepted, knowing that I was staying on Wall Street, my work was on Broadway, and his event would take place somewhere in the eighties on the Upper West Side. That meant I would be spending a boatload of money on travel, money I desperately needed to conserve since the job I was working wouldn’t pay out for a bit. 

But he was particularly persuasive and the next thing I knew, at 9pm I was in an uber that dropped me off in front of a swanky building covered in Ivy.  I walked in and I was met with an elevator.  The sign revealed that this was no ordinary bar - it was a rooftop bar.

Instantly I got nervous.  I had never done this before - and this event was turning out to be a lot fancier than I had anticipated.  I was dressed nicely, sure, but not well enough to be schmoozing around with businessmen and their wives clutching cold martinis that used frozen fruit instead of ice cubes. I considered texting him, to ask him to meet me downstairs, but I decided against it, because if he did come down, that would mean I would HAVE to hang out with him.  Ultimately, I resolved to stake out the bar and take my leave if he turned out to be catfishing me.

I went up and came out to a gorgeous patio, adorned with string lights and breathing in wafts of enticing smells. Ivy League saw me straight away and approached me.  He was unbelievably handsome, with bright blue eyes, tan skin, and dirty blonde hair.  He was a bit chubbier than his photos looked, but there was still a defined musculature in his face.  I was glad I came.

Talking to him was easy.  I confessed that I had never met up with anyone on Tinder before, but he was kind about it.  He bought me drinks, introduced me to his friends and co-workers.  There was a live-band on the roof playing 80s music, so obviously I HAD to dance.  After a while the slow stuff came on and we found each other locked in a long embrace.  We exchanged kisses, though none were as passionate as the first one we shared over a glass of whiskey.

I didn’t go back to my friend’s place on Wall Street that night, but instead found myself back at Mr. Ivy League’s apartment in the Lower East Side.  We took a taxi-cab there and made out the entire trip.  He pulled me into his kitchen and we ate chocolate and shared one glass of wine between kisses and fondles.

Eventually the big thing came.  The bedroom. 

I went into the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror, but the moment I saw my face I knew that I could not go through with it.  I tried to rationalize with myself - “It’s just sex” I whispered quietly.  “No big deal.”

I repeated this multiple times, but each utterance seemed to curse me more than relieve my anxiety.  Suddenly I was conscious of all the bits of fat that hung loosely over my chest, the slight bubbling pimples in my pores, and my hair that was a tangled mess.

I opened the bathroom door and said abruptly: “Listen, I don’t think I can have sex with you.  I’m gonna go home.”

He stopped me: “Wait - it’s okay.” He said.

Ivy League promised me that he did not mind if there was no penetration.  In fact, he was more eager just to “get to know me,” and hopefully “watch some netflix.”

The latter statement made me incredulous, as it was the most well known euphemism among my generation.  Still he seamed earnest, and that was important to recognize.   So we didn’t have sex, instead we just laid naked next to one another and kissed all night.  His laptop didn’t even open.

FRIDAY

When I woke up, I had to get to work.  He was still asleep, so the romantic side of me felt compelled that being cliche and disgusting would be perfectly appropriate: I left my number on his bedside table enclosed by a heart.  I ran out the door for my uber and found myself back on Broadway.

We texted throughout the day, and he ended up meeting me for lunch.  I promised him outside of Starbucks to hang out with him in the evening. 

Upon leaving work, I got a call from him informing me that he was already in midtown and wanted to know if I was interested in seeing a Broadway show.  Hamilton, he specified.  Naturally, I died on the inside and during intermission I fantasized about sitting on his cock in the taxi ride back to his apartment.

While we were hooking up in his bed, my eyes wandered over to his bookshelf where I suddenly exploded with shock: he had the entire Tolkien legendarium there: from the Hobbit all the way to the Silmarillion. I interrupted foreplay, okay - but it was for a good reason.  We gushed over the series together, and he ended up showing me his entire collection of LOTR related texts.  In retrospect, it was so hot, he was so hot all naked and sexy and reading Tolkien to me.  We played a game where I sucked his cock while he attempted to read Goldberry and Tom Bombadil’s poems in Fellowship.  

But we didn’t have sex.

 SATURDAY

Waking up, I was alarmed.  Ivy League had told me that he would be up early Saturday morning to train for a race.  I checked my phone to see that he had texted me at 6:37am informing me he had left, but would be back around noon. 

I was getting desperate, because here I was - in the bedroom of the greatest human on earth - and we STILL had not yet copulated. I sat in his bed, frustrated with myself and with the fact that my travel agent had booked a flight home for me Sunday morning. 

Today was busy: I had my final day at work and dinner plans with family and friends.  He had also told me tonight he and his co-workers were planning on doing something together, so the odds of us having sex were not in our favor.

Regretfully, I wrote him a heartfelt letter and stuffed it in his sheets before heading out.  

That night, he texted me at dinner which lit up my entire world:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

SUNDAY

I boarded the plane, exhausted, pissed, and distraught.  I had a horrible night’s sleep in my friend’s tiny apartment loveseat and I was very sexually frustrated.  The Love Gods were not strong with me, and losing Mr. Ivy League hurt so much.  I sent him another good-bye message (it was among many from the night previous) which he responded almost immediately: “The second you get back to New York, text me.”

TODAY

This all occurred one month ago.  I wish I could say that we continued to keep correspondence, but it seemed the minute I got home I was swamped with more work.  Our exchanges became curt and unresponsive - from the occasional ‘hi’ to the respectful 2am ‘hey’s.’ 

Facebook informed me that he was in a relationship, which prompted me to quickly defriend him, so when he texted me this morning, I was a bit surprised. I clutched my phone underneath my desk to read his message:

“We were like a long, unexpected party.”

Out of the blue. 

I struggled to come up with a witty response.  So instead I simply retorted: “i know.”

And just like Bilbo, he disappeared. 

A LONG UNEXPECTED PARTY By: Anonymous Published 5/13/16

[small-tale]

how i almost screwed up my life

“I think I’ll apply to law school.”

I say with the utmost sincerity to my friend, Meredith, an actor.

She raises her eyebrow at me in disbelief.

We are sitting in her room – she lives across the hall from me – and the smell of flavored candles is pungent yet inundating.  I am disillusioned and she is frustrated.

“What?” She asks, skeptical.

“I just don’t think I’m cut out for this.” I return.

Meredith snorts and rolls her eyes.  I say stupid things, frequently and often on purpose, and she knows it.  But a subsequent simmering of an awkward silence indicates that this time, I am not joking.  Meredith turns back to me and demands: “Why?”

I don’t know really what to say at this point.

I could argue that I don’t have the endurance that an artist needs in order to survive in this field. Most people I know who were successful theatre folk tend to have wealthy parents and were already well-connected – two aspects that I lack.  I refuse to starve; especially for somebody with the dimorphic attribute of being an ectomorph, starving was not an option.  I had a taste for expensive things – my parents inadvertently spoiled me somehow when they were supposed to be disciplining me – so how was I going to get by on slices of pizza on paper plates for five years before I made it big?

Suddenly, as I blink I experience a flash of déjà vu:  “I don’t think I’ll be an actor.  I think I’ll be a lawyer.” My other companion and roommate, Kevin, confides in me.

This conversation occurred several days prior.

I was surprised. Kevin?  Kevin, with the blue eyes, chiseled chin, gorgeous Aryan face, athletic bodily build, and once described as the “epitome of masculinity,” was having doubts of his acting career?  To reiterate -- Kevin, the highly intelligent, well-read, liberal, baritenor, virtuosic, highly cast-able privileged white cis-male was having the slightest inkling of a doubt about his career?

Kevin had informed me in confidence that he had submitted an application for a double major in the Organizational Studies program at our school.  This secret alarmed me because it was indicative that if someone who was as perfect as he was had even the slightest doubt about his future career, then for someone like I – who could arguably be referred to as a ‘trainwreck’ – to even consider pushing forward was just, frankly, bullshit.

I mean for fuck’s sake, KEVIN, who scored a 32 Composite on his ACT blind, turned down a Soccer Scholarship and a place in the Notre Dame Business School, to study acting was hesitating!?

That night, after speaking with him, I stared at my bookshelf of plays and the posters of productions I directed.  The hours of rehearsals and emails and waiting seemed to escape me.  All of my idols – Anna D. Shapiro, Tracy Letts, Mary Zimmerman, Sam Gold, Meryl Streep, Beyonce – how had they done it?

Tears formed at the lips of my eyes as I thought about the countless minutes I spilled into rehearsing a play; a play I knew was incredible, only for nobody to show up throughout its run.  And then like fireworks exploding in my mind, I immediately tore through images upon images of my manuscripts – texts upon texts of words, words, words, that I had revised painstakingly every night and submitted to the same contests every year only to lose to the same goddamn fucking people.

I saw my friends – prolific and thriving, getting paid to be Assistant Directing over the summer, and no doubt landing several consecutive jobs upon graduation – who were much more successful than I, yet no better of an artist than me, simply gliding by while I found myself in a rut.  I did not just burn out.  I went out with a bang.  TS Eliot would have been shamed if he had seen me.

Or maybe he wouldn’t have, because I kept this all to myself – as Meredith eyed me suspiciously, waiting for an answer.  When it failed to come, she turned away from me, folding her clothes.

If I had told her all these thoughts, I knew she would scoff at me and call me ‘selfish’ or ‘self-deprecating.’  I thought of a potential argument where I would defend myself by insisting that it was my generation’s tendency to be such – especially coming from her, a prime example of the kettle and teapot; but I detest millennial naivety and the erroneous assumptions that we make about ourselves, thus I stayed silent.

But she, and by ‘she’ I mean the hypothetical she, was absolutely correct.  I am very selfish and I am very self-deprecating, because I do not want to be starving and poor and unknown. I am ambitious and hungry a la Alexander Hamilton in the style of Lin Manuel Miranda and I am critical of those who are not.  I remember an instance in middle school when I punched a boy in his gut because I asked him: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and he responded: “I just want to be happy.”

I don’t recall what exactly my 13-year-old-self was thinking, but if that mass of missing language were to be translated into my 21-year-old rhetoric, it would probably have glossed: “Fuck you, you fucking asshole.  Of course everyone wants to be fucking happy you prick. I’m just asking for a little specificity here!”

I know for a fact I would not have punched little Kevin Moskowitz (different Kevin) had he just confessed what I wanted to hear: “I don’t know.”

Sitting in Meredith’s room while she is ignoring me and folding her laundry, I want to start sobbing. Suddenly all those studies and clippings about the ‘Race to Nowhere’ or Frodo’s regrets about going out into Middle-Earth and being unable to return to the Shire afterwards made sense.  I sat on the couch looking at 13-year-old me holding his fist above cry-baby Moskowitz and instantly regretting it.  

I got up and went to my room, and although I did not burst into tears, I slumped into bed and pulled the covers over my face.  I was furious with myself.  I was Kevin Moskowitz.

I just want to be happy.

This vagary disgusts me. I look at my ceiling and I think of all those stories I read when I was young – the stories about those Horatio-Algerian heroes who achieved immense success; only to realize that material things, like Rolexes and diamonds, and spontaneous trips to Mykonos did not equate happiness.  But how could they not?! They are socially constructed elements – the currency of our mentalities that are undeniably the measures of wealth.  And if I were a lawyer, sure I could be self-deprecating for several years, but the moment I start making a six-figure salary would I really be so unsatisfied?  And it’s not like I could never leave the arts – because there was no doubt in my mind that if I were really that wealthy I would be sitting on the Board of Directors for some non-profit theatre, or producing an off-Broadway or even Broadway show.

After all, TS Eliot said it himself – “Life is very long,” and if life is in fact, very long (and yes, I understand I am taking the lines out of context, do not feel the need to mentally condescend me with intended meaning of The Hollow Men, I have a BFA) then perhaps I could go back into the industry, far more prepared and stable!

I am nervous.  Having a defined plan intimidates me because when things inevitably veer off course, how will I bounce back?  I have always enjoyed being blind to the future.  I have consistently ignored all the tarot-card readers and fortune-tellers that were hired at various festivals because I enjoyed the darkness and feared the light.  I was accustomed to doubt and anxiety.  They rested on my shoulders like the hands of a lover.

I could never be a fucking lawyer.

I cannot practice law, but I would love to influence law – to criticize and reinforce policy.  I would love to stay informed on current events, to understand international politics down to the grassroots of my hometown.  I would love to travel to third-world countries and meet citizens that could humble me and kick my ass off my high horse so I wouldn’t be such a prick all the time.  I would love to tell their stories to the greater public, because frankly, the world is so vast and so beautiful and too rich to keep it all isolated from oneself.

And then the silence around me grew still for the first time.  My obsessive compulsive personality ceased its onslaught for a moment. My ceiling looked far warmer than it did a minute ago.

All of those things I wanted to do – I was already doing them.  I spent a summer at the nation’s largest LGBT theatre producing a play about transgender identity, and states like North Carolina are still convinced transmen and women are pedophiles desperate to get into bathrooms to rape unsuspecting victims.  I wrote an entire play adapted from my mother’s oral history of her experiences as an immigrant woman from China trying to comprehend her crazy existence. I directed a play about deafness – and how it was not a disability, and how essential communication and storytelling is to humanity; because if we did not have each other, then we might as well have been dead.

And I’m sitting here in a library, holding back tears as I type this – breaking my 6th grade Language Arts teacher’s rule of never using the word ‘I’ in a personal narrative because I – I, I, fucking I just had an epiphany.  I do, do all those things in the theatre.  And I am self-aggrandizing and I am self-deprecating and I am selfish.  But I am those things because I am doing the things I want to do.  And I am so happy.

The thought that I will be poor and hungry for most of my life is a daunting one.  But the thought that I would be a stuffed man, leaning against other scarecrows – my headpiece stuffed with straw; that is an existence that is entirely hollow.  

I am sitting now, looking at myself in my mind’s eye.  

I am handsome.  

I could probably eat less – my digestion habits are atrocious.  

The clothes I own are fashionable enough for at least the next decade.  

Maybe.

At dinner, my roommates and I are sitting in our living room.  We are eating leftover scraps and talking about the latest play we have seen. Meredith marches down the staircase with boyfriend number three, or four – I have lost count at this point.  She looks radiant and beautiful and she speaks with us a moment.  

As she leaves she looks at me and says: “I’m not letting you go to law school.  You’re far too talented.”

I wait for her to leave before whispering to myself: “I know.”

HOW I ALMOST SCREWED UP MY LIFE By Greg Strasser Published 5/11/16

[small-tale]

all dogs go to heaven

I’m sitting at the library when I get a text from my mother.  It reads:

“Ninnies dying.  Need the car to see her.  Come home now.”

I assumed that, because my mother being of the older generation, she neglected to specify who exactly ‘Ninnies’ was, but it was natural for me to postulate that there was supposed to have read ‘Nina’s.’

I had a brief scare, as Nina was a dear family friend of ours. In sincerity, she was one of those adults in my life who I had never remembered meeting, just that that she had always been present.  I recalled spending hours in the bedroom of her town house trying to connect to the internet on her desktop computer because she refused to use anything besides dial-up.  Her faithful Siberian husky, Niu-Niu – named for the golden retriever my family had briefly owned – often sat at my side, howling for joy and nuzzling my back.  

Nina and her dog were of the same personality – boisterous, beautiful, and bold.  In her home there were no photos of her estranged husband (they never filed for divorce, rather separated amicably) anywhere, and few of her only son, Jimmy.  There were, however, a myriad of glamour portraits depicting Nina dressed in traditional Chinese attire – floral robes with lotus imprints; wielding giant fans that sported pink peaches or golden dragons; hairpieces of peach blossoms and the moon adorning her various hair-dos.  These massive photographs hung proudly in her Feng Shui-savvy home, enticing to the eyes yet enigmatically impalpable.

I rush home from the library to find my mother perfectly content, sipping soup.  I wonder how long she has known Nina was dying, as her mood did not reflect one of alarm.  I look at her, puzzled, as I enter the kitchen to find my dinner waiting for me.

“Aren’t we going to go see Nina?”

Mother looks at me as I eye her and shrugs. “We’ll go after dinner.”

“Are you sure?” I press.

“It’s fine, I’ll tell her we’re coming after dinner.”  Mom assures me as she reaches for her cell phone.

She dials Nina and says in a burst of Shanghainese that we’ll be there after we eat.  My mother, unusually happy about her friend’s impending death, sat beside me staring at Instagram.  I am unnerved at this point now, for although I know my mother has a twisted and hard personality, to be this passive in the moment of her friend’s suffering was highly suspicious.

“How long have you known about this?” I ask mom.

“Oh, for a while now. There’s something wrong… wrong with the kidney, you know?  And if the kidney is messed up, then you are just screwed.” My mom replies nonchalantly.

“How long does she have left?”

“Two weeks.”  Mom responds.  “They had her on life support, but the doctors told her, ‘Sorry, there’s nothing we can do.’ So they estimate two weeks.”

“And they just left her!?” I was aghast.

“What are they gonna do!?” Mother rebuffs.  “Finish your dinner.”

I sip the soup – which is actually pretty good – quickly.  I eye how elaborate the ingredients are: potatoes, basil, some bits of sundried tomato, chicken, salted and peppered to perfection.  It astounds me how much effort my mother put into making this soup when she knew her friend was DYING.  

“So…” I begin. “How did she sound on the phone?”

My mom smiles a bit.  “She’s crying.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Why are you smiling about that?”

Mom looks at me and chuckles. “Because, I think it’s funny, you know?”

“You think it’s funny?” I retort.

My mother does not respond. I don’t know why I’m every surprised by her humor anymore.  This was coming from the woman who was infamous for throwing my cat outside in the snow to watch it come back only to throw it back out again; who sped up purposely in the car when a little critter was crossing the street; who laughed wildly when my sister started crying about some drama with her friends.   My mother was certainly a character.

The door opens and my sister walks in, backpack in tow.  She settles down by the table and sits across me.

“Nina is dying.” I inform her.  “Are you going to come with us to go see her?”  

My mom gives me a funny look.  “Nina’s not dying.” She says with peculiarity.

I am confounded.  “But you said in your text – ” I reach for my phone. “That Nina was dying.”

“I never said that.” Mother clarifies. “Niu-Niu is dying.”

I stare at my sister and my mother now, bewildered.  Suddenly, a huge wave of relief passes over me and I begin to laugh hysterically.  My mother and sister are now the ones who are giving me strange glances.

+++

At Nina’s home I am welcomed by a waft of sausage and pickled cucumbers.  Her townhouse, charming and unique, is awash in strange scents.  Nina has been crying, her eyes aren’t red but the bags beneath them are moist and at the cusps of her lids are an evident soreness.

She hugs me, it’s been almost a year since we had last seen one another.  I cannot help but feel overjoyed that she will live, even if Niu-Niu will pass.  Nina ushers us to her living room, still festered in Chinese antiquity and glamour photographs (in fact even more so since I had last visited) but with a new addition of a gross stench.

Niu-Niu looks up at me. I am shocked.  The poor old dog rises up and attempts to turn her body around to greet her old friend.  In the past, Niu-Niu had bounded out the door even before I had come up the steps of her porch.  She would howl in her signature baritone voice, filled with glee that I had arrived. After being tackled, I would often be tasked by the adults to give her a walk so they could attend to their card games. Niu-Niu and I had shared many walks throughout their grassy neighborhood – walks that resulted in her brute strength overcoming my grip on her leash, leaving me on the ground and her yards away chasing some poor lapdog.

Now, she stares at me – her eyes yellowed and her body flappy and lanky.  Bits of hair cling loosely to her skin.  She looks like a used brush.  Nina informs us that she was at the hospital moments ago when the doctors had told her the unfortunate news.  “Her liver is damaged.  Some weeks she is healthy and then others she is horrible, but now it seems like there is no more cycle.  She’s going to stay like this forever.”

“Well, not forever.” My mother rudely inserts.

Nina places a plate of chicken in front of Niu-Niu, whose failure to rise and greet me fully has left her depressed.  She picks her head up to move slightly towards the plate but she can only spare enough energy to lick the breast before collapsing her entire chin on the plate. I watch her long nostril whimper as it rests on the food she could not eat.

Nina puts me to work immediately.  There are a plethora of rugs all sprawled out in her living room and kitchen.  She informs me that the hardwood floors are too slippery for Niu-Niu to walk on and thus she needed to carpet as many inches of the places as possible.  I go to the cellar and transport two big rolls of rugs, but it does no good – beside the maze of colorful carpeting upon the floor, it barely covered anything and it seemed to taunt the poor dog more than provide accessibility.

We construct a small furry path to the kitchen, and then another one to the couch where Nina has placed a small step ladder for Niu-Niu to use in case she wants to sleep on a higher surface.  My mother and I exchange looks, thinking the same thing – it would be worse for the dog to be in a higher place.  Mom cuts in abruptly during our chores: “Nina, don’t you think it’s time to put her down? Look how much she’s suffering.”

Our gaze is on Niu-Niu, now head slightly bobbing at the plate.  Beneath her chin is a mess of chicken strands, clinging to her hair. Nina shakes her head: “It’s too early.” She insists behind a whimper.

Nina and my mother go to the kitchen to talk.  I sit with Niu-Niu for a bit, recalling our long past together.  I have known the dog for almost thirteen years now, and for the latter fourth of those years I was away at school.  Niu-Niu can’t even move her head to look at me properly now, though just last year she had sat atop of me nuzzling into my chest.  

I realize how much I love the poor old dog, and though I want to cry I hold back the tears and continue to pet her.  I see how insulting that plate of food is and I go to pick it up and immediately she snarls and barks loudly.  Shocked, I step back and look at Niu-Niu, whose face is angered and nostrils are flared. The veins in her snout are bursting and she looks like a demon.  Niu-Niu has never snarled at me before.  I apologize profusely, as if she could speak English and then when she seems to understand I pet her head quickly and head to the kitchen.

There, Nina is wrapping her arm in a bandage.  “Niu-Niu bit me outside the hospital.” She explains to me. “She has never acted this way before.  First time she ever bit me.”

Nina goes back into the living room to fetch the plate.  Before I know it, Niu-Niu is snarling and barking hysterically.  Her voice booms throughout the house.  Nina begins to cry again, clutching a walking stick that used to try and push the plate away.  

My mother, uncomfortable, announces that we will leave.  I stare at her, offended by her abruptness, but relieved that we will not get to remain any longer.  Nina wipes her face and then hugs my mother and me.  It was the first hug that I ever received from her.  “Say goodbye to Niu-Niu.” She says.  “You won’t see her after this.”

I go to pet Niu-Niu, but now she is furious.  The uneaten food is guarded by her and she snarls at my outstretched palm.  I cannot even touch her I am so afraid.  I rise up and wave, hoping that dogs understood what waving meant.  I say half-heartedly “Goodbye Niu-Niu.  I love you.”

Her vision shifts to the food now.  She tries to gulf at it, as if to say: “Fuck you all, I’m gonna eat this goddamit.” But her failure to lift the chicken sends her face back into the plate.

“One day she’ll be free again.” Nina assures herself aloud.  “She’ll get to run around in the grassy fields of dog heaven.  She’s gonna be with God.  Dog God.”

“All dogs go to heaven,” I nod in agreement, hiding my agnosticism.  

“That’s right.” Nina wipes another tear from her eye.  “All dogs go to heaven.”

Niu-Niu wipes her chin on the carpet and falls fast asleep.  

ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN by Greg Strasser Published 5/12/16

[small-tale]

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